


to sit on my throne as the prince

by somehowunbroken



Series: to live within [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Philly's sons don't usually stay with her, but sometimes those who come to her borders are sons she never knew she had.
Series: to live within [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1170653
Comments: 20
Kudos: 96





	to sit on my throne as the prince

**Author's Note:**

> travis konecny was born to be a flyer. fight me. better yet, fight him.
> 
> third in a series, but the other two aren't must-reads; all you need to know is that cities are also people, more or less.
> 
> many thanks to ari for encouraging my title choice when i told her i was considering going with something else.

Philadelphia has been called a lot of things over the years. Some of them have been adulations, bright serenades to her streets and her people; others have been sneering descriptions, as if _New York_ has any room to throw elbows. Some have simply been nicknames that waxed and waned in popularity through the years. Quaker City. The Birthplaces of America. The City of Brotherly Love. She likes that one, honestly; it describes so much about her, about her residents. Generally speaking, siblings have a deep love for each other even though their relationships have fault lines, and they will almost always end up back to back, supporting each other against whatever outside force is trying to tear them apart.

Of course, that's not always the case. Cain and Abel were brothers, too.

Still, the nickname that fits the best, the one that holds the most meaning, is simply _Philly_. It encompasses so much: the people who live within her borders, the people who come to visit, the joy and the repulsion, from the banks of the Delaware to the reaches of Overbrook. She is Philly, from the cracking pavement of the streets in Harrowgate to the mirrored windows of the skyscrapers in Center City.

There are no rules separating those who live in Philly's borders from those who don't. She doesn't draw such distinctions; anyone can live in Philly, but she's found, over time, that there are certain qualities to the ones who will stay. There is an inner steel, not always visible but there in the flash of an eye. There's a wildness of spirit, a need to move and keep moving. There's a pride that holds heads high, a sense of humour with teeth, a well of love and loyalty that runs deep.

It's not a list of requirements, but it is, Philly has learned, a list of recurring themes.

-0-

Some cities know, she knows.

Places like Toronto, like Montreal, like Boston. They look ahead; they plan, they connive, they cajole. Things are set in stone for places like these long, long before the stages are set for the cities to make their picks.

Philly takes a different approach.

She's constantly chastised for it, sure. She pulls together groups of _almosts_ and _maybes_ and _nearly theres,_ and sometimes the things she builds are only beautiful to her. It's a character flaw, perhaps, but it's what makes her unique, she thinks.

She approaches draft day as she does every other day, as she's approached every other draft day before: without a clear idea, without a plan. She'll know, she reminds the men who cluster around her, trying to point her towards this child or that. She won't bring someone to her borders who won't fit there, even if he won't stay, even if he won't belong forever. And she'll make her own choices, she adds, voice firming as the men start to squawk, as if that will change her mind.

As if it has _ever_ changed her mind.

She lets her eyes roam around the room, lets her heart reach out and listen, feel, _find_. There are always a few in the crowd who stand out to her, and she'll choose from among them, she's sure. The dark-haired boy with the bright smile would fit, she thinks as she drifts; there's a broad boy with blond hair who would work too, she supposes. 

There's a tall Russian boy whose heart sings about determination and hard work, and when she smiles at him in passing, he smiles back instead of shrinking away. He'll fit, she thinks, scanning around. He'll fit, and he'll keep the men and their opinions at bay, and she doesn't mind playing into their hands now if it means she gets what she wants in the long run. 

It's a strange day; usually she's here to select one boy, but today she's being given two. She doesn't care for the details, the hows or the whys or the particulars. She will give the men a boy they'll be pleased with for her first choice, and her second will be selfish. She settles down to wait as a hush falls over the floor and Edmonton walks to the stage, and she does what she does best: she _listens_.

The children have been instructed to stay quiet and still in their seats as the ceremony drags on and on; they are still just children, though, and so there is plenty to hear. There are cheers for friends and furious whispers for perceived slights; there are tears and there is laughter and she takes it all in, listens, sorts through it to find someone to choose.

By the time she strides to the stage the first time, long orange hair looped and piled up on her head, she has an idea. She calls the name _Ivan Provorov_ and stands as he approaches the stage, sure in her choice as he smiles at her like he's accepting a challenge before making his way down the line. She watches him shake one hand, then another, and then she turns and looks back into the crowd, listening and moving her gaze until she finds--

He's small, she notes, with wide shoulders and dark, wild eyes. He looks like an animal someone's tried to tame, hair short and styled, tie notched at his neck. She gets flashes of his future as she looks in his direction: hair brushing his shoulders as he sneers at someone daring to _touch_ , a loud laugh, a fire that doesn't seem like it could ever be doused.

He meets her gaze and smiles fiercely, chin jutting out, and Philly--

She doesn't often get what some of the other cities get, the chance to keep children of her own. Sometimes she's able to come close, to find a discarded boy that New Jersey has cast off or one who limps away from Pittsburgh. Her children fly, though, out and away, and it's not that they never come home, but she rarely gets to _keep_ them.

She walks back to her seat and sits, waiting, biding her time. She wonders how a son of hers has never visited her before, has grown up somewhere so far from her boundaries. She sits in place through Brooklyn calling for the dark-haired boy; his fire will burn well there, she thinks as she watches him head to the stage. She doesn't move when the broad blond boy gets called by Vancouver, smiling as he makes his way down the stairs.

She rises as soon as they clear the stage, striding for the microphone and ignoring the protestations of the men following her up. They always try to make her wait; they think, she knows, that they might sway her to their choices, if given the time to do so. It's as if they've never met her, these men who ask her to slow her pace.

The boy is easy to find, watching her take her place behind the microphone with a crooked smile on his face. He looks relaxed and ready in equal measure, interested in what's going on around him without being overly concerned. There's a restless itching beneath his skin that Philly can feel from here, and she doesn't break eye contact as she leans forward and says _Travis Konecny_ into the microphone.

He rises, crooked smile growing, taking over his entire face. He turns to hug the people sitting with him, then makes his way down the stairs, striding towards her with the confidence of a boy who knows he's walking headfirst into his destiny.

He offers his hand to her first, when he's climbed the stairs and made his way to the front of the line. She smiles as she takes it, pleased but not surprised to find that his handshake is sturdy, solid.

"Welcome to the Flyers," she says.

"Thanks," he replies, and as he looks up at her, his eyes flash, just briefly, to orange.

The men in the line mutter and murmur to themselves as she lets her own smile grow, but she pays them no mind. This is her son, this boy with his fire and his venom, his steel and his laughter. Travis Konecny was born to be a part of Philadelphia, and Philly has done her part.

She's brought her son home.

**Author's Note:**

> the only thing more philly than tk is gritty, fight me again
> 
> i'm on twitter! follow me there, but let me know who you are, as i don't accept random requests :)


End file.
